


The One Where Arthur Can't Help Himself

by RurouniHime



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Break Up, Christmas, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Graphic Violence, Reconciliation Sex, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Arthur Can't Help Himself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dysonrules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysonrules/gifts).



> The first of thirteen ficlets I wrote for various people during a gift exchange this year. The goal was 500 words for everyone (and believe you me, that was HARD. I am Bad at writing Short Things). Everyone got a choice of my fandoms/pairings. The experience of writing these has been fantastic! 
> 
> This one is for dysonrules. Everyone should know her, she's awesome. ^_^ Happy holidays, love!

The front door crashes open right before the window goes. Eames takes a fist to the face and sprawls back on the bed, and thus is slow to realize he has two seconds left to live. He reaches to deflect the gun’s barrel, but the man’s head snaps back, bullet hole. And there is Arthur, above him.

“Get up!”

“Arthur.” Eames rolls, finds his own gun and plasters the next invader to the hallway wall. “You’re in Tacoma?”

Arthur’s expression is ugly. He grabs Eames’ shirt and hauls him to his feet. “I wasn’t an hour ago. _Move_.”

**

There’s blood on Arthur’s shirt. He jerks away from Eames’ hand, rolls up his sleeve. On the safe house’s table are woeful plasters and peroxide. “It’s a graze.” Arthur cleans it, bandages it. Scowls at him. “The hell were you doing asleep? _At home?"_

Eames gapes. “Didn’t know I had a price on my head, did I?” Should have seen this coming, though, after Calais. Maybe if he hadn’t been so mopey, so distracted by Arthur going off the grid—

“Well, you do.” Arthur yanks his shirt to rights. He’s dressed up but messy, travel wrinkles. Arthur still lives in San Francisco, in the flat Eames packed himself out of at the end of May.

“It’s Christmas, darling,” he searches.

Arthur reassembles the First Aid kit with furious snaps, then tosses it away. “Shut up, Mr. Eames.”

“Keeping track of me.”

“I was supposed to be with my mother!” Arthur yells, and Eames draws back. In. The boundaries erected months ago stare him in the face, and the slant of Arthur’s shoulders closes him out.

“Could have left me there.” It comes out softer than it should.

Arthur turns on him as if yanked. “ _No,_ Eames, I couldn’t.”

A single breath— Arthur’s _eyes_. Eames’ heart hurts like a gouge. He grabs Arthur’s collar and pulls, gets his mouth on him where it should have been for the past seven months. “Darling— why didn’t you just say?”

“You’re the one who—”

Eames moans, brokenhearted a second time this year by his own stupidity. “Told you not— trust a thing— comes out of my mouth—”

Arthur pulls himself up Eames’ front, both arms, one leg. Eames hoists him onto the table. The sallow light shows bruises beneath Arthur’s eyes. He wraps himself around Eames like a limpet. “You fucker— didn’t mean _leave_ —”

“Shouldn’t have— said to then.” Eames opens Arthur’s pants, yanks off his own shirt. Arthur’s chest is hot and heaving. He tastes like bad coffee, dinner mints. Like home. “ _Missed_ you.”

“Eames, I’m—” Arthur fumbles their trousers open and thrusts against him, sharp rolls of his hips, and Eames ravages that perfect mouth until he can’t, until all he can do is fight for air across Arthur’s lips and strain against him and feel each of Arthur’s fingers digging into his hips. Pulling him in. The table jolts. Arthur rasps his name like a prayer, and comes. 

~fin~


End file.
